


Blame It On the Eggnog

by Scrunyuns



Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mostly Dialogue, Numbers has some issues with his self-worth, UST, Wrench fancies himself a bit of a practical joker, alcohol consumption, and he spaces out a lot, gambling (kinda)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-07 01:57:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5439230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrunyuns/pseuds/Scrunyuns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wrench finally manages to get a piece of personal information from his standoffish partner: Numbers doesn't celebrate Christmas, or Hanukkah, or anything of the sort. But that won't stop Wrench from pushing presents on him.</p><p>(This was written long before the season 2 finale, so it's gonna be non-canonical.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blame It On the Eggnog

**Author's Note:**

> This is for makeyouanocean on tumblr, for the Holiday Hitmen '15 Secret Santa. Hope you like gratuitous fluff and UST!

**Friday December 15, 1995**

The vacant parking lot is a winter wonderland, dressed all in white for the holiday season. Big, fluffy snowflakes catch the warm light of the street lamps as they fall, illuminating the evening sky. The thick blanket of snow covering the ground is untouched but for the tire tracks from their own car and the footprints made by Numbers pacing back and forth. Wrench can't stop the child in him from thinking it's all a bit magical, and suddenly he remembers that Christmas is just around the corner.

 _What are you doing for the holidays?_ he asks his partner.

Numbers looks thrown, stopping in his tracks. He seems scandalized at the fact that Wrench, with whom he'd agreed that they keep their relationship one hundred percent professional, had dared to ask him a personal question. Wrench doesn't feel bad; the question hadn’t come from a place of disregard for their relationship, just a bit of the holiday spirit and some good, old-fashioned boredom. The package they are supposed to be picking up is late by a good forty-five minutes, and he'd thought he might as well kill time with a bit of small talk.

 _Nothing,_ Numbers signs once he has gotten over the initial shock. _I'm not religious._

 _Neither am I,_ Wrench admits. _Not much, anyway._ _But I still celebrate Christmas, just for the sake of tradition. You don't do Hanukkah?_

Numbers looks to be unfamiliar with that last sign, cocking his head to the side like a confused dog, so Wrench starts fingerspelling it for him. He gets the idea after the first K, and he shakes his head.

 _Why would you assume I'm Jewish?_ he asks, narrowing his eyes at Wrench.

_J-E-R-G-E-N told me._

_Why are you asking him about me?_

_I didn’t ask. It came up in conversation._

_Why are you talking to him for anyway?_

_Have you met him? All he ever does is talk._

There's no arguing with that; their Australian colleague is an insufferable motormouth, discouraged by no amount of unreceptive body language or even being told directly to shut the fuck up. Numbers softens up a little but he still looks annoyed, like he's disappointed that his partner hadn't actually been prying about him.

 _Alright, I'm Jewish,_ he confesses. _But only by blood. My parents weren't believers, so we never celebrated anything._

 _I think it's nice to spend time with family during the holidays, at least,_ Wrench signs.

 _Are you going to see your family?_ Numbers asks, but his body language suggests that he's only asking to get the upper hand on the conversation.

 _My mom is dead,_ Wrench informs him. _Who knows about my dad._

Numbers tries to appear unfazed, but his wide eyes betray him.

 _I’m sorry to hear that,_ he signs.

 _So you're not visiting your family for the holidays?_ Wrench asks, keen to change the subject.

The suggestion makes Numbers crinkle his nose, as if the very thought of it has left behind a rotten stench. Wrench takes a deep breath and swallows his doubts.

 _Why don't you come to my place on Christmas Eve?_ he asks, hands trembling slightly.  _I could use the company._

_Do you think that's a good idea?_

Numbers raises his eyebrows as he signs, but it's not really a question. Instead of waiting for a response, he looks off into the distance, and Wrench takes it as a cue to shut up.

\---

**Monday December 18, 1995**

**The 1st day of Hanukkah**

When Wrench shows up on his doorstep three days later, Numbers opens the door just a tiny crack.

 _What are you doing here?_ he asks with an exasperated sigh.

 _Came by to give you something,_ Wrench signs and reaches into his coat pocket.

An impish smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, he hands his partner a tiny gift wrapped in innocuous brown paper. Numbers shoots him a suspicious look as he weighs the small present in his hand, puzzled by the lightness of it.

 _Your first Hanukkah present,_ Wrench explains. _You said we shouldn't celebrate the holidays together, but that doesn't mean I can't get you presents._

 _Yes, it does,_ Numbers protests.

_Come on, it's only a little one._

Defeated, Numbers sighs again and starts tearing at the wrapper with the enthusiasm of a child who has just squeezed their present and realized it's a only pair of socks. Five layers of wrapping paper later, the mystery inside is unveiled:

A single Scrunyun.

“You think you're real fucking funny, don't you,” Numbers grumbles, scowling.

Wrench unzips his jacket with a smirk and pulls out the rest of the bag, handing it to his partner.

 _You know I could’ve just gone out and bought these myself,_ Numbers signs and snatches the yellow bag out of Wrench's hand.

_Yeah, but you're always saying you feel guilty for eating too much junk. Today you have an excuse._

Numbers nods begrudgingly as he tucks into his onion-flavored addiction, signing a quick thanks before shooing Wrench away and retreating back into his dark apartment with his snacks, like a wolf dragging a carcass into his cave.

\---

**Tuesday December 19, 1995**

**The 2nd day of Hanukkah**

_You're back._

_Yeah, I got you a present for every day of Hanukkah._

_I don’t want them,_ Numbers signs and tries closing the door, more confident in his resolve this time around.

Wrench is too quick for him, however, and he manages to slip his foot in the door. It hurts like a motherfucker, that heavy block of wood slamming against his foot, but he just smiles through it.

 _That's a shame,_ he signs at his frustrated partner. _Because I've got six more presents lined up._

 _This isn't very professional of you,_ Numbers reminds him as Wrench presents the second gift.

_Just take it, S-C-R-O-O-G-E._

Numbers makes quick work of the wrapping paper. When he realizes what he's holding in his hands at the end of it, he gives Wrench a look that could make Hell freeze over.

 _They're hairnets,_ Wrench signs.

“Yes, thank you, I can see that,” Numbers mutters as he inspects his present with great distaste.

_I modified one of them a bit. It’s for your beard._

_Why?_ Numbers asks, shoulders slumped in fatigue, looking like he's about to break down and cry from sheer frustration.

 _Because you're always so fussy about your looks,_ Wrench explains as he barges into Numbers' apartment. _Here, let me help you._

While Numbers glares daggers at him, Wrench puts the hairnet over his partner’s perfectly styled quiff. He then affixes the other, modified hairnet to his ears and, suppressing a laugh, spins Numbers around so he can have a good look at himself in the mirror.

 _It's very you,_ he teases.

"I hate you so goddamn much," Numbers mumbles through his beardnet.

\---

**Wednesday December 20, 1995**

**The 3rd day of Hanukkah**

Wrench has been slamming his fist against the door of his partner's apartment for a solid five minutes before Numbers finally relents and flings open the door.

 _I told you I don't want any more presents,_ he signs, hands hacking and slashing at the air.

Wrench shoves the gift of the day into his partner's hands, like an overbearing grandmother who will never take no for an answer.

 _You_ have _to take it,_ he insists. _The last present is shit without this one. By the way, I can't help noticing that your hair and beard look extra nice today._

Rolling his eyes, Numbers tears at the wrapper. Inside is a sleep mask, red satin bordered with white lace, 'Merry X-Mas' embroidered in white, swirly cursive letters.

 _Because you're always grumpy and look tired,_ Wrench explains.

 _Thank you,_ Numbers signs, his narrowed eyes and bared teeth making it abundantly clear what he thinks of his partner's input.

_It might help you sleep. Sorry about the theme, I couldn't find a Hanukkah mask._

_Please leave. Now._

\---

**Thursday December 21, 1995**

**The 4th day of Hanukkah**

Wrench knows Numbers is home - he can see a sliver of light coming from the other side of the door - but apparently he refuses to welcome the fourth installment of his partner's unsolicited gift parade. Not one to give up without a fight, Wrench starts slipping little notes under his door.

'Are you really hiding from me? How old you are you?'

'I've been out here knocking for 10 mins and I think I'm starting to annoy your neighbors. I guess you better open?'

'Come on, aren't you curious? You'll like this one, I promise.'

'Please open the door. It's cold out here and I'm a Southern boy.'

Wrench waits, perched on Numbers' doormat, occasionally slipping naggy notes under the door. After an hour of waiting he decides to admit defeat, but when he picks himself up off the floor he notices a post-it note; it seems to have come from the other side of the door and the message scrawled on it says ‘GO AWAY’ in his partner's big, bold letters. Numbers had probably thought that would deter him - but really, it's just fuel for the fire. 

‘How do I even know this is the real Numbers?’ Wrench writes, a diabolical smirk playing on his lips. ‘I don’t recognize this handwriting and I am inclined to suspect my dear partner is being held hostage in his own home. I might just have to kick the door in.’

He slips the note under the door and waits, imagining the look on his partner's face. Moments later, the door is wide open. Numbers is _livid_.

 _How the fuck did you get so annoying?_ he asks, his hands moving with unbridled fury. _Were you raised by mormons?_

Ignoring the insult, Wrench digs into his pocket and pulls out a slim, rectangular box. Numbers accepts it with a frown and starts having at the brown paper, letting out all his frustration on it. When he realizes it's a pack of nicotine patches, he peers up at his partner with a look of disbelief.

 _I remembered you said you're quitting,_ Wrench explains as Numbers tucks the box of patches away in his pocket.

_I always say that. It never happens._

_Yeah, I've noticed. But maybe this will be an incentive for you?_

_Hold up,_ Numbers signs. _Is this your pushy, annoying way of saying that you care whether I live or die?_

 _Of course I do,_ Wrench signs with a shrug.

And at that, a tiny, almost undetectable smile starts tugging at Numbers' mouth.

_You want to come in for coffee?_

\---

**Friday December 22, 1995**

**The 5th day of Hanukkah**

The following day Numbers is far more inviting, opening the door after the first few knocks. _No need for coercion today._ Wrench figures he has finally succeeded in breaking the ice, even if the conversation they'd had over coffee the day before had been less like an actual conversation and more like a long, awkward pause modestly interspersed with small talk.

The fifth present comes in the form of a stripy scarf; merino wool, soft as the sheep it came from, in hues of blue, grey and burgundy - Numbers' preferred colors, Wrench knows. He has never seen him in any other colors.

 _Nice,_ Numbers signs and rubs the delicate fabric between his fingers. _Almost_ too _nice. This can't have been cheap?_

_No, but it's a sound investment. You're always harping on about how cold it is, and that I can do without._

Rolling his eyes, Numbers drapes the scarf around his neck.

 _How do I look?_ he asks, straightening his back.

 _Great,_ Wrench signs. _Really handsome._

A blush creeps up Numbers' neck then, erupting in his cheeks, and he's quick to look away. He takes the scarf off and hangs it on the coatrack.

 _Thank you,_ he signs. _For the scarf, I mean._

_You're welcome._

_Do you want to stay for a coffee?_

_No, I better go,_ Wrench signs, stepping out into the hallway. _Got things to do. Sorry._

Numbers nods and gives a quick smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

\---

**Saturday December 23, 1995**

**The 6th day of Hanukkah**

When Wrench knocks on his partner's door - 5PM on the dot, just like the day before and the day before that - Numbers has already brewed a pot of coffee. Mindful of his manners, Wrench accepts a cup and takes a seat beside his partner on the couch.

When he has finished his coffee, he hands Numbers today's present.

 _Don't judge this one too harshly,_ he signs when his partner has unwrapped the gift. _I made it myself._

 _You made this?_ Numbers asks, picking up the wooden comb and inspecting it closely.

The comb feels smooth in his hand. It isn’t made from fancy stuff, just recycled wood from an old broken stool Wrench had found lying around, but he has lacquered it to make it look more pricey.

 _It's really nice,_ Numbers signs.

He smiles, and for once it's genuine; not the Cheshire Cat grin reserved for people he's trying to intimidate, nor the softer, sycophantic smile he flashes when he’s trying to get out of trouble or butter someone up.

 _Didn't realize you could do stuff like this,_ he signs, visibly impressed. _Where did you learn?_

_My uncle taught me._

_I guess you've spent some time on this?_

_To be honest,_ Wrench starts, a bit hesitant, _I’ve been working on it for a while. Since you broke another one of your plastic combs. That mane of hours needs a sturdy wooden comb, not some cheap shit from a dollar store._

For a moment Numbers just sits there blinking at him like an owl, rendered speechless by the sincerity of the gesture, by Wrench's apparent concern for him and his "mane". If he only knew how many times Wrench has thought about reaching out and touching it.

 _You're right,_ Numbers finally signs and runs the comb through his hair. _It's great. Thanks._

_I'm glad you like it._

_Do you want to stay a while?_ Numbers asks, biting his lip, looking hopeful.

 _I probably shouldn't,_ Wrench signs with an apologetic half-smile. _We've already entered into highly unprofessional territory here. Right?_

Numbers nods, not smiling this time.

_Right._

\---

**Sunday December 24, 1995**

**The 7th day of Hanukkah**

**Christmas Eve**

When Wrench heads out to bestow upon his partner the gift of the day, he is surprised to find Numbers coming up the stairs of his building, carrying two sixpacks and a massive box of pizza.

Inviting him in, Wrench relieves his partner of the monstrous pizza and puts it in the oven for reheating. Numbers follows him inside with tentative steps, carefully scanning his surroundings like a cat being brought into a new home. When he finally starts feeling relaxed he puts the sixpacks in the fridge, leaving two cans out for himself and his partner. Leaning on the kitchen counter, he pops his beer open and takes a surprisingly long swig.

Wrench knows his partner has strict rules about drinking on the job, but now it's starting to look like he's the kind of guy that hits the bottle hard whenever he's off-duty. 

 _I'm glad I caught you, Numbers_  signs.

 _I thought you said it wasn't a good idea to come here?_ Wrench asks, still puzzled by the surprise visit. 

 _Had a change of heart last minute,_ Numbers signs with a sheepish smile. _Sorry I didn't bring turkey or a roast. Hard to find a place that's open today._

 _No, pizza is perfect,_ Wrench insists. _That's actually what my mom used to make for Christmas._   _But not all fancy like that one, just toaster pizza._

Numbers looks as though he's torn between amusement and pity.

 _You're more white trash than I thought,_ he signs. _Nice Christmas tree, by the way._

Still with that patronizing look on his face, he points to the kitschy plastic abomination standing in the corner by the couch, adorned with multicolored tinsel, cheap plastic baubles, and old porcelain chachkis with faces so twisted and unsettling they’d give Satan himself nightmares.

 _Just trying to be festive,_ Wrench signs. _If_ _you really want to see holiday cheer, watch this._

He crosses the room in a few quick strides and crouches down beside the tree, starting to fiddle with something on the wall. Before Numbers can figure out what his partner is up to, the tree is lit up by white lights. Two seconds later, the rest of the room is bathed in hues of red, green, blue, yellow and purple. He hadn't even noticed the chain of lights hanging along the walls of the living room, held up by duct tape.

“Haha, wow,” Numbers says, marveling at the garish display of lights.

 _You like it?_ Wrench asks and flicks the switch to the ceiling lamp. _Mood lighting._

_It's beautiful. Really classy._

Numbers makes sure his partner catches the sarcasm by giving him the thumbs up and Wrench responds in kind with a gesture that needs no translation, the Middle Finger Salute.

_You want some eggnog, dickhead?_

_Sure._

_Take a seat,_ Wrench signs, gesturing to the couch.

Numbers collapses on Wrench's soft couch with a sigh, only too happy to rest his weary bones after having spent the better part of the afternoon roaming the streets of Fargo, looking for a supermarket or a restaurant that stays open for the holidays. If this had been the Twin Cities, he'd be spoilt for choice.

He grabs the remote and turns the TV on, zapping through the myriad of Christmas specials and televized church services with utter disinterest until Wrench returns with the pizza and two cups of steaming eggnog. Numbers accepts with thanks, takes a tentative sip, and makes a face.

 _It's good, right?_ Wrench asks, a fiendish smirk threatening to split his face in half.

 _It's awful,_ Numbers signs. _Is it from a carton?_

Wrench answers him with a wink.

“Figures,” Numbers says, rolling his eyes.

 _The more you drink, the less you notice how gross it is,_ Wrench informs him. _I spiked it pretty hard, so it shouldn't take long._

And sure enough, it doesn't take very long at all: a few slices of pizza and one cup of eggnog later, Numbers is starting to feel warm and relaxed. Lids heavy and cheeks red, he holds his cup out and asks for seconds.

 _Can I ask you something?_ He signs when his partner returns with his refill.

Wrench responds with a shrug.

_When did your mom pass?_

_About twelve years ago._

_You miss her?_

_Especially around this time of year,_ Wrench signs with a solemn nod.

_May I ask how she died?_

For some reason that question puts a wry smile on his partner's face, and for a moment Numbers fears Wrench might reveal that he'd killed her himself.

_Take a guess._

_That's a very morbid guessing game._

_I'm sorry,_ Wrench signs with a pointed eye roll. _Did I offend your delicate hitman sensibilities? Just take a guess._

_Well, if she was the kind of person to make toaster pizza for Christmas dinner… N-A-S-C-A-R accident?_

Wrench shakes his head.

_Rabid possum bite?_

_No. You'll never get this._

_Black Friday stampede?_

_Not even close. Although none of those would be very surprising._

“Alright, I give in,” Numbers says, throwing his hands up and slumping back against the couch.

 _Struck by lightning,_ Wrench signs.

His partner's eyes go wide, then they narrow in suspicion.

_You're lying._

Wrench raises one hand to the heavens and puts the other one on his chest.

_I wouldn't lie on the birthday of Baby Jesus._

_Makes sense, I guess,_ Numbers signs, _if she was as tall as you._

That forces a bark of laughter out of Wrench, and while Numbers is proud to have elicited that kind of reaction from his stoic partner, he can't ignore how he looks away for a moment, wiping at his nose with a swift and subtle movement. Numbers nudges him in the shoulder.

 _Here's to your mother,_ he signs, raising his cup of eggnog.

Wrench smiles, raises his cup to Numbers’, and drains it. His partner does the same, no longer cringing at the vile taste.

 _This stuff is delicious,_ Numbers signs with a tiny hiccup and holds his cup out in a plea for another refill.

 _Your ASL is a lot better when you're drunk,_ Wrench signs when he returns with the third round of eggnog. _Did you know that?_

_Do you think so?_

_Yeah, you're a bit slower but you seem more confident._

_I'm slower because I'm having trouble understanding you,_ Numbers signs. _My brain slows down when I drink._

_Well, I tend to get sloppy with my signs when I've had a few. Sorry._

_Don't be sorry._

Then, without thinking, Numbers puts his hand on his partner’s thigh. He catches himself almost immediately, pulling his hand back like he'd just stuck it in the mouth of a crocodile. Wrench simply pretends he didn't notice.

 _Before I forget,_ he signs, standing up. _Got another present for you._

_I hope it's not as extravagant as the last one._

Wrench presents him with a small, square box. It’s wrapped neatly in sparkling, white paper and a fancy blue ribbon, which suggests it was done in a store. Feeling almost blasphemous for touching such a perfect thing, Numbers unwraps his present gingerly. Inside a brown cardboard box is a wooden dreidel, painted black and decorated with intricate patterns in red, green, blue and yellow.

“Seriously?”

 _Thought maybe you’d like to get in touch with your heritage,_ Wrench signs.

 _You didn't make this one yourself?_ Numbers asks.

_Hell no, I can’t paint like that._

_These are for kids, you know. I don't even know how to play with one of these._

_Lucky for us,_ Wrench signs, _it came with a manual._

Reaching over for the small cardboard box it came in, he makes sure to brush Numbers’ leg with his fingers, just to see if he can get a reaction. Numbers delivers, tensing up.

From the box he fishes out a folded up piece of paper and hands it to his partner, who quickly skims the instructions.

 _This sounds like gambling,_ Numbers signs, pleasantly surprised. _That makes it more interesting. Do you have some game pieces?_

 _We should play with real money,_ Wrench suggests. _That's how it's done, right?_

 _Don't ask me,_ Numbers signs. _I might be Jewish, but I know as much as you do about this stuff._

Wrench sticks his hand in the pocket of his jeans, looking for small change.

_I don't have any coins. We could play with C-H-I-P-S?_

Numbers nods, and Wrench gets up to rummage around in his kitchen cupboards. When he returns with a bowl and a bag of Doritos, his partner cocks his eyebrow at him.

 _I thought you meant the plastic kind,_ Numbers signs.

Wrench tears open the bag and pours the contents into the bowl.

 _Each chip represents one dollar,_ he declares, laying two corn chips on the table. _We start with one each._ _  
_

Having far better luck than his partner, Wrench wins most of the rounds, ending up with a big pile of chips. Numbers swears the toy is rigged, eventually becoming so frustrated that he grabs a fistful of his partner's chips and shoves them into his mouth before Wrench even gets the chance to protest. Needless to say, this officially ends the game.

 _You son of a bitch,_ Wrench signs. _You're the sorest loser I've ever met._

 _If it's any consolation, these chips taste like ass,_ Numbers signs, his eyes watering as he tries to masticate the cheese-dusted corn chips.  _Why didn't you get S-C-R-U-N-Y-U-N-S?_

_I would have if I'd known you were going to do that._

When Numbers returns from washing his mouth out in the bathroom sink, Wrench hands him another cup of eggnog.

_This will get rid of the cheese taste._

_Thanks._

_So your parents really never taught you any of this stuff?_ Wrench asks, gesturing to the dreidel.

Taking a good swig of the eggy booze, Numbers shakes his head.

_No. Never.  
_

_That's unfair,_ Wrench signs. _I don’t see the harm in playing with this. It's not just religion, it’s your culture. And culture shouldn't be lost._

_Culture is religion and religion is culture. That's what my parents used to say, anyway. They were intellectuals. Didn't believe in anything but themselves._

_Not even you?_ Wrench asks, giving his partner a little nudge in the shoulder.

The comment had been made in jest, but Numbers still looks kind of blue.

 _Me least of all,_ he signs. _I was a bad apple. Couldn't play piano, wouldn't read K-A-N-T. Just sneaking off to parties and getting getting high, getting into fights. Useless._

_You're not useless._

Taking another sip of his eggnog, Numbers brushes it off with a noncommittal shrug.

 _You’re good at what you do,_ Wrench insists. _And you’re a good partner. When I'm working with you, I feel like I'm in safe hands._

 _Thanks,_ Numbers signs with a half-hearted smile. _Maybe you could send my mom a letter telling her that her son is a good hitman._

_You also made my Christmas this year a lot less sad than it would have been._

_Would you have been sitting at some lousy bar crying into a glass of whiskey if I hadn't come?_

_Probably._

_Tell me something,_ Numbers signs, sitting up straight and looking his partner dead in the eye. _Did you get me all those gifts so I would change my mind about spending Christmas with you?_

_No._

_Why, then?_

_I don’t know,_ Wrench signs. _It was just a joke at first. But then... I wanted to do something nice for you._

 _Why?_ Numbers asks again, sincere in his bewilderment.

 _I think you just answered your own question. I guess I did it b_ e _cause you don't seem to understand why anyone would want to do something nice for you. And I don't think anyone has in a long time._

Taking a deep breath, Numbers looks genuinely distraught, his eyes wide and glistening - although that's likely due to the booze more than anything, Wrench assumes - and for a moment Wrench is worried that he has said something wrong, been too forward, too truthful. He is worried his partner will clam up again and push him away as a result. _And here I'd been making such progress._

Before he gets the opportunity to apologize, however, Numbers surprises him by leaning over and planting a kiss on his lips.

The kiss is chaste and lasts no longer than a second, but it's enough to make Numbers cringe with guilt and regret as he pulls away. He is quick to sign a frantic apology.

_I'm so, so sorry. That was stupid. I shouldn't have done that._

Wrench tries to shake his head, he wants to tell him  _No, it was nice, please, put those lips on mine again,_ but he is floored and can't seem to find the words. And when he finally comes to his senses, Numbers is already out the door.

\---

**Monday December 25, 1995**

**The 8th day of Hanukkah**

**Christmas Day**

‘Please talk to me.’

Wrench slides the note under the door, and waits. Several long, excruciating minutes pass without an answer, but he's no quitter.

Good things certainly come to those who wait, and Numbers eventually opens the door - just the tiniest crack, just so he can tell Wrench to leave him alone. Even in the dim light Wrench can see that he looks rough, his messy hair and the dark circles under his eyes speaking volumes.

 _You shouldn't be here,_ he signs, trying to avoid his partner's gaze. _Go away._

 _I had to give you your last present,_ Wrench insists.

Resting his forehead against the doorframe, Numbers closes his weary eyes and sighs.

_Alright, hand it over then._

He unwraps the dome-shaped present, and soon there's a snowglobe lying in his palm. It's nothing fancy, just plastic, with a miniature of a familiar cityscape inside. The base says ‘Minneapolis & St. Paul, The Twin Cities'.

 _I had to go a bit out of the way to get it,_ Wrench admits. _But I wanted to get you something extra special. We did our first job together there. Remember that?_

“Yeah,” Numbers sighs, walking over to his bookshelf and putting the snowglobe next to the dreidel.

 _How could I forget?_ he asks with a weary smile. _That fucker broke my nose._

_I beat the shit out of him, after._

_I remember._

_You don't have to feel bad about what happened yesterday,_ Wrench assures him as he follows him inside.

_I was so drunk. I'm sorry._

_Don’t be._

_It was really unprofessional of me,_ Numbers signs. _And I don't even know if you're into men..._

_Stop._

_My mouth probably tasted like corn chips and inferior eggnog..._

Wrench has had enough, grabbing his partner by the wrists to stop his self-deprecating monologue.

 _Shut up,_ he signs. _Don't apologize. I liked it. And I want you to do it again._

Numbers stares back at him, unblinking, unmoving, for what seems like a lifetime, and Wrench is starting to think that this time he might have permanently broken his poor partner. He's just about to start waving his hand in front of his catatonic face, when Numbers finally snaps out of it.

 _Wait here,_ he signs, snatching his coat and his new scarf off the coatrack.

 _Where are you going?_ Wrench asks as he watches his partner get dressed.

 _I'll be back soon,_ Numbers promises.

_But that wasn't my question!_

The front door slams shut and Wrench is left by himself in Numbers' apartment. _What the hell is he up to?_ he wonders, walking over to the window and peering through the blinds, down at the streets below. He sees a tiny Numbers jumping into his tiny car and speeding off, finally disappearing in the distance. It makes him feel queasy.

 _Alright, what's the worst case scenario here?_ he asks himself. Numbers could be going off to tell the bosses, to get them to reassign him, set him up with someone new. That means Wrench is back to communicating by writing on napkins and motel notepads. Or maybe Numbers is skipping town, running until he hits whatever coast he’s heading for. _And I'll just be sitting here waiting until the sun goes down, like a jerk._

He has always been good at catastrophizing, the multitude of ways in which everything could go terribly, horribly wrong always lurking at the back of his mind. If they weren't, both he and his partner would probably be long dead. He thinks up scenarios wherein Numbers comes back only to shoot him dead, or calls in a favor with a friend to do the deed for him. Whatever the outcome, Wrench is certain of one thing: he has really screwed the pooch.  _We're not even a year into our partnership and I've already put my big, stupid foot in it,_ he thinks. _But then, wasn't it he that kissed me first?_

He decides to wait, to be optimistic - but he loads his handgun, just in case.

Wrench is used to waiting. However, the word ‘soon' seems to mean something entirely different to Numbers than it does to him. He eventually finds himself bored with pacing back and forth, waiting for his partner's return, so he decides to take his mind off it with some television.

Making himself comfortable on the couch, he is surprised to find that Numbers seems to have bought a brand new TV, one of the models that do captions. He remembers asking about the old one the other day, to which his partner had called it "a worthless piece of junk", but he'd said he didn’t see the point in getting a new one because he "never really watches the idiot box anyway". Wrench also recalls telling his partner about how all new TV sets are required to do closed captions nowadays, a comment that had made Numbers look pensive. He hadn't thought much of it at the time. 

 _This doesn't necessarily mean anything,_ Wrench reminds himself. _Don't go getting your hopes up now._

There are Christmas movies and TV specials on every station, but even timeless holiday classics aren't enough to keep his thoughts from straying back to his mysterious partner, at least not for very long. _Where is he?_ Wrench wonders. He frowns as he looks out the window and notices that the sun is setting.

When he goes to the bathroom, Wrench takes the opportunity to snoop around a little. _Just to kill time,_ he tells himself. _Not because I'm nosy._

From the cabinet over the sink he learns, among other things, that Numbers likes sandalwood and musk soap bars, that he writes himself little reminders to floss, that he may have a bit of a pill addiction, and - perhaps the most relevant to Wrench's interests - that he has used both his new comb and the nicotine patches.

He is tempted to sneak into Numbers’ bedroom to see if he’s been using the sleep mask and the hairnets, too, but he restrains himself. He has overstepped enough boundaries as it is, and perhaps he shouldn't push his luck with a man who has that exact word permanently inked across his chest.  _If things go well, it probably won't be long until I see his bedroom anyway._ Wrench surprises himself with that freudian slip, suddenly ashamed of his own brain for being so cocky and presumptuous and primitive.

He returns to his spot in front of the TV, hoping that perhaps the campy slapstick comedy of _Home Alone_ will serve as a sufficient distraction from his thoughts of rolling in the hay with his partner, or being murdered by his partner - both of which are daunting.  _Stop thinking about it,_ he commands himself. _Focus on the movie, you sadsack._ Even as he's watching a child defend himself against two grown (albeit stupid) men by booby trapping his house in the most confounding ways, Wrench is hopelessly lost in the tangled mess of his own thoughts. He barely even registers Numbers standing in the doorway.

Startled, Wrench's hand immediately goes to the gun tucked into the waistband of his pants - but thankfully, his partner isn't packing anything but a small, metallic red box with a green stick-on bow.

 _Merry Christmas,_ he signs, worrying his bottom lip nervously.

Numbers walks over and takes a seat beside his partner, handing him the present. Still suspicious, Wrench handles it like one would a baby bird, hoping and praying that this isn't just some trick, that there isn't a tiny bomb nestled inside the box. He hesitates before removing the lid, looking to his partner for reassurance. With a wave of his hand and an eager, uncharacteristically childlike smile, Numbers urges him to go ahead and open it.

There’s a stack of small cards inside the box, decorated with sickly sweet illustrations of plump, nude cherubs wearing Santa hats and holding mistletoes. Wrench lets out a sigh of relief and turns the cards over; on the back of each card, in Numbers' own handwriting, is a gift voucher. They're for dinner dates, backrubs, and the like.

 _Sorry, it's not much,_ Numbers signs. _Not a lot of stores open today, so I had to get creative._

Smirking, Wrench picks up a card that says '1 Free Kiss'.

 _Will you get me hooked with a free sample and make me pay for the rest?_ he asks.

_Of course not._

_Good, because I'm broke._

_I hope you didn't spend all your money on my presents?_

_I did, but it was well worth it._

_Okay, but now my present just seems like complete shit in comparison._

_Are you kidding?_ Wrench signs. _It's the gift that keeps on giving! I'd love to be taken out to dinner._

 _Is that all you want to do?_  Numbers asks, putting his hand on his partner's thigh again - intentionally, this time.

There's really no ambiguity to be found in that. With a wicked grin, Wrench grabs his partner by the back of the neck and makes good use of his first voucher.

It's shaping up to be a very merry Christmas indeed.


End file.
